The fire in Yaolu was not strong, and gray smoke came out from the cracks of the copper stove, lingering with the fragrance of medicine, drifting to the window lattice and forming a thin layer of frost. Shen Zhaoning squatted in front of the stove, with the palm of his right hand pressed against the hot medicine jar. The blisters burst, the skin and flesh rolled up, and the blood mixed with the medicine juice dropped into the charcoal ashes drop by drop, silently. She didn't move or change her hands. The medicinal soup gurgled in the pot, like someone crying in the throat.
